Edge
by somberrimshot
Summary: *A rewrite of my Clove-perspective Hunger Games* Clove Rhona has spent her entire life maintaining stability in a world that she has learned she can't control. When she is selected as the female tribute for the 74th Annual Hunger Games, she learns more than she ever intended about the world she lives in and the people she trusted to keep her safe.


*Author's Note: This is a rewrite of a project I started last year and never completed last year. I've come up with a much stronger concept and I can't wait to watch it unfold. Please review the hell out of this, good or bad. More to come tomorrow!*

Seven knives sit in their designated spot on my dresser, harsh florescent light glinting off the blades in a way that could be considered comforting in any other environment. The stark, stringent quality of the dormitories often gives me that feeling I can't describe. Not like home – definitely not that – but order. Order is nice. Just like my knives, one for every year of training I've completed. My knives are in order, and so is everything else. Well… move this one over a smidge, and there we go. Order. Everything is in order.

 _Except my hair_ , I think, flinching at the sight of my reflection. Morning never looked good on me. My eyes never seem to want to open, hazed over with another night of restless sleep. The medicine they give me to help me sleep only succeeds in keeping my eyes closed; it never shuts down my mind. I wrestle with the neverending stream of consciousness that plagues me in my waking hours, all the while laying still in my standard-issue sheets. Which is why I fail to understand how my hair ends up like this every morning.

I grab my brush and begin to pull through the dark thick rat's nest I call my hair. Sometimes I wish I didn't feel that gnawing need to make every strand lay straight. Cassie always just pulls hers back in a simple bun, no matter its state. Then again, her pinstraight hair is far more forgiving, flowing like the honey its color mimics. She says she envies my curls, though I oftentimes wonder if it's just her way of placating yet another one of my insecurities. _Likely,_ I think.

As I brush I stare at the bottles lined up against my mirror, seven bottles to match the seven knives, each one containing its own distinct collection of brightly colored pills. Three are for my anxiety, two to curb my compulsive behaviors, one to help me sleep and one for the dry mouth all the other ones cause. I can't truly speak for any of them actually working, especially the dry mouth. But it comforts Dr. Aurelius to know that I'm taking them. And really, it's just another part of the routine. I'll finish brushing my hair and put it in its usual braid, take one pill from the first five bottles and swallow them one by one, make my bed, dress in my training clothes and go to my first workout of the day. Every day, same thing. Order.

"Clove!"

My door bursts open. The suddenness causes me to jerk, and I feel the small knot of hair I was working my way through release itself from my scalp.

"Great," I say, looking at the clump in the bristles.

Cassie's head peaks out from around the door. "You've got plenty more hair where that came from," she says with a smirk. "This is way more important anyway." She sticks out a pale hand holding something pink. I have to squint through the sleep still resting in my eyes to see what it is.

"Is that a cupcake?" I ask, incredulous. Desserts aren't a common find on the training compound. I take it from her and marvel at the perfect swirl of the frosting and the delicate white fondant lily topping it.

"Strawberry buttercream with a cream cheese filling, straight from a Capitol bakery delivery, you're welcome," Cassie replies, voice oozing with her normal obscene level of cockiness.

"Who's arm did you have to break to get that?"

Cassie scoffs. "I don't have to resort to violence to get what I want like _some_ people. I can be persuasive."

It's not untrue. For a military-trained, socially-deprived orphan living among other military-trained, socially-deprived orphans, Cassie really has learned how to navigate around the constraints of our lifestyle to get what she wants. I can easily picture her charming some unsuspecting kitchen worker into intercepting the pastries and keeping them stored for whenever she decides she wants something sweet.

"So what's the occasion?" I ask as I peel away the decorative gold lining. I think twice before crumpling the paper. For all I know, it could be actual gold.

"I think you know what the occasion is."

My eyes dart up. Cassie's smallish mouth spreads into a wide, wicked grin.

"No. No, you didn't. Cassie tell me you're not gonna say what I think you're gonna say."

"Happy birthday, Clovie!" she shouts, throwing a gentle puff of what I think is confetti at my face.

"Shhhhh, don't let anyone hear you!" I chide. I set the cupcake down on the dresser and start toward her. "How did you even find that out?"

"Some of the instructors have gotten really lazy about file storage. Lyme had yours laying out all nice and lovely right across her station desk as she was shouting at me for trying to find it in her desk."

"And why in the hell would you be looking for my file?" Cassie does a lot of ill-advised things, to be honest. I wonder why I even bothered to ask.

She shrugs. "To find out when your birthday was, of course. And also, to be able to give you this on your birthday." She holds out a piece of paper. I stare at it, and she thrusts it forward again. "Just take it, Clove."

I take it and glance through what I find is just training data. "Wow, Cassie, this is revolutionary. My 100-yard dash time from when I was 12."

She rolls her eyes and points at a section on the back, a handwritten notes section. "Read there before you criticize my sleuthing."

I do as she says, and immediately I recognize the handwriting. "Metallus, like, Commander Metallus?" I whisper.

"Like Commander Iordan Metallus, head of the national Peacekeeper Corps and leader of District 2, man responsible for all Games assignments, yes. That guy. Look there at the bottom." She points to a number, 78.

"78?" I ask.

"As in the 78th Annual Hunger Games," she smiles.

My heart flutters. "So I've been assigned." A smile works its way across my face.

Cassie shakes her head and laughs. "Clove, you've been assigned since you were 12." She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Everybody's recognized your greatness for a long time now."

"I know, but it's real now." My heart picks up again. Probably should've already taken my anxiety meds. I open up the bottles and dump them into my palm.

"Ugh, you still take that stuff?" Cassie makes a face as I swallow down my daily dose. "I toss them. They make me narcoleptic."

"Maybe if you took them, your disciplinary record wouldn't read like a novel," I reply. "Speaking of which, as you've obviously been perusing records for no good reason, have you found yours?"

"Not yet. Doubt they'll assign me anyway, I'll end up a Peacekeeper like all the other severe disappointments that pass through these hallowed halls." She chuckles lightly. "That or they'll stick me in the Games just to get rid of me. Give District 1 a year to win. I'll end up with someone like Flint to cuddle up to on a cold night in the Arena."

I snort and am immediately remorseful for it. "Don't be mean to Flint, the acne will go away eventually…"

"All I'm saying is, whatever prep team ends up with that sorry bastard has their work cut out for them." She ruffles my hair and starts out the door. "Eat your cupcake and get dressed. I'm going to go tell everyone it's your birthday."

I crane my head out the door and shout behind her, "Don't you dare Cassia!" But if she's got it in her head, it's gonna happen. Time to mentally prepare myself for the attention I'm going to get today.

I hear a shout from down the hall, "By the way, that confetti was all of your disciplinary write ups. You're welcome."

I shake my head, turn to the cupcake sitting invitingly on my dresser and smile. Three years, and I'm in the Arena. The thought almost makes me reconsider stuffing that cupcake into my mouth right before a three-hour training session, but what can I say? Strawberry is my weakness. Plus, even if I don't want anyone knowing about my birthday, the gesture is an incredibly thoughtful one.

I strip off my sleep shirt and begrudgingly pull on my training blacks. I've always hated how close the clothes cling to my skin – to the curves I lack – but Lyme, my primary trainer, says that's the point, to be able to see all the body's definition as we train, make sure the right muscles engage, etcetera and so on. More recently, I've found myself feeling oddly exposed in the tight fabric. I pick and I pull and I squirm and I can't ever feel comfortable. Dr. Aurelius says it's normal for a 14-year-old girl to feel this way… Wait, 15. I'm 15 now.

I stare in the mirror and analyze. Nope, not a single curve. Naïve to think another year might bring any change. No, my body is still the flat simplicity of childhood blended with the hard lines of eight years of training. I've always taken so much pride in my strength; with every benchmark I pass I can feel that insatiable hunger for more and better calm itself for just a moment before clamoring for even more and even better. But every once in a while, I find myself wishing for the fragility and delicate ways that come with being feminine, or desirable even.

I shake my head at my mirror self. Even if I had a more womanly figure, that wouldn't fix my face. Sharp lines are my defining details: small, severe nose, prominent cheekbones spattered with freckles, thin hard line of a mouth, slanted almond eyes. All the details of stone quarry workers from the Peaks, so Lyme has told me. It's where I always assumed my family was from.

My eyes could almost be considered pretty. I know I have my mother's eyes, I remember that much about her. Piercing blue eyes, the same color of the midday sky over the mountains, framed by thick black lashes that only served to intensify that stare. I see that faint flicker of a memory every time I see my own reflection. But even that only adds to the harshness of my face. My muscles and my features alike have been bred to reflect my warrior status. I am a weapon in looks and in action.

Whatever stylist I end up with in three years is going to have a damn good time. Could sharpen my teeth like Enobaria. Better not.

I throw my still tangled hair into a quick braid and try, to no avail, to reassure myself that the earth's turn will not come to a screeching halt if I don't make my bed, then hastily whip the sheets into some semblance of arrangement. I slip into my boots, grab my sheath of practice knives and glance at the seven knives laying on my dresser before taking off down the hall toward the Quad for the day's first session.

"I'll get another one today," I say to myself with a slight smile. "Eight years down, three to go. 78th Hunger Games, here I come."

When I enter the Quad, I'm immediately greeted by two arms the size tree trunks encircling me, lifting me two feet off the ground.

"Cato!" I scream. "Cato Pylus, you put me down right now or I swear to god I will kick your ass!" I'm a little ashamed at the record-high pitch my voice just achieved.

Cato sits me down and spins me to face him. "Have fun with that, Little Bug." He ruffles my hair. I roll my eyes at him. He's been calling me that ever since I arrived at the Compound, which at the time was appropriate. I was a little lanky thing with a penchant for getting into fights with people far bigger than I was, and he became my protector."Or should I say Birthday Bug?"

I groan. "She told you." I peer around his shoulder and give Cassie an icy stare. She catches my glance from the combat mats and pauses her sparring match with her brother, Otho, to stick her tongue out at me.

"She told everyone. Did you expect any less?" Cato laughs in that deep throaty way that I've always loved. It's a comforting sound that reverberates through your chest within a ten-foot radius of him, a sound befitting the monstrosity of a man he is. Looking at Cato reassures me that there's still hope for a growth spurt – he grew nearly a foot and put on 100 pounds of nothing but muscle between the ages of 16 and 18. It'll serve him well in the Arena. This is probably his year.

"So," I say, walking toward the stretch mat. "Choosing Ceremony tonight."

He follows. "Yeah, so?" We sit down on the mats and start our stretch set. I love stretch set. The counting is so simple and methodical, just numbers and breaths.

"So, you're 18. Last year. Top of your age class. It's all falling into place."

He shakes his head humbly. "Nah, I doubt it. I was a bit of a late bloomer, my early marks aren't good enough. Plus, the whole incident from three years ago –"

"You're going." Cassie plops down next to me on the mat with Otho in tow. Cato's brow furrows. Cassie rolls her eyes. "Please, don't act like you're surprised."

"We don't know that for a fact," Cato huffs.

"She does," I say, moving into a straddle. "She's looked at files."

Cato turns to Cassie. "Cassia, you're going to get yourself kicked out of the Compound one of these days."

Cassie grabs my hands and pulls me further into my straddle. I'm stiff and a burn pulses through my hamstrings. _Pain is good_ , I remind myself. "Maybe that's the goal," she says with a smirk.

"Maybe you're an idiot," Otho says. Cassie shoves him playfully. "No, seriously Cass, what would you do if you get kicked out of here?" She doesn't respond, and bites her lip. "You're only 15, you couldn't handle yourself on the streets. I mean, yeah, it's never been done. They're used to delinquents around here. But you're going through official paperwork. They're going to figure it out eventually and –"

"And what?" Cassie interrupts. "You said it yourself, no one's ever been kicked out."

"What are you even trying to accomplish?" Cato asks. "What are you hoping to find?" I raise my head. He has a point. Cassie isn't above doing things for the sake of just being a general pain in the ass of the Compound officials, but now that I consider it, going through sealed files really is a risky move on her part.

Cassie stands suddenly. "Would you look at the time, I'm about to be late to my endurance exam." We all look at her with the same stare of disbelief. "What? I care sometimes."

Our stares stay.

She rolls her eyes. "Guys, settle down. I was just getting bored with defacing punching bag and graduated to stealing governmental files, is all. And hey, it's worked out for you two, right?" She points at Cato and smiles. "But hey, Ceremony tonight, Reaping tomorrow. Happy Hunger Games, you lucky bastard. And may the odds be ever in your favor." She winks and clicks her tongue as she turns and darts to the endurance course.

We watch her run off. "I worry about her," Otho says, watching her the whole way.

"I don't worry, she's smart," I say. "I just question why she does what she does."

Otho shrugs. "I want to believe she has her reasons, but I struggle to find any. I don't know why she's so fascinated with assignments right now. She's never cared about her own assignment. But that day she came across mine, she's been obsessed…"  
"Wait, she found yours?" Cato asks as he stands, pulling his arm across his chest.

"76," he says with a smile. "Contingent on the fact that I bulk up, obviously. I also saw something about a treatment date, but I didn't see what the treatment was for."

"Oh, the enhancers." We look at Cato, who looks back at us in confusion. "You guys don't know about enhancers? I thought everyone knew. I've been on them for about a year now."

"What are they?" I ask.

"You know, just a couple rounds of intravenous vitamins and supplemental stuff. I go to the clinic each week and get my doses and move on with my day. I think it's a way to get a leg up on the competition by giving us some sort of biological stockpile for when we're in the Arena." He shrugs. "I don't question it. Whatever keeps me alive. Apparently I'm going to need it." He extends a hand to me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. "Come on, Little Bug, I need someone to call my distances on target practice. Lord knows you're better with knives than I am."

As we walk to the targets, a sense of dread creeps up on me. Otho may be right. Cassie has always been good at testing her boundaries, but I'm beginning to worry she's towing a line that's going to put her in a bad position. But I can't worry about that right now. For now, she's safe under the supervision of our trainers, who will run her ass so hard that she won't be able to think about her harebrained schemes and conspiracy theories for the night. Cato needs me more.

I throw him my bag of knives and tell him, "We've got two hours to make sure you know how to throw straight." He looks at the knives and laughs. "Hey, it's not all swords and spears in the Arena, Cato."

He smiles at me. "I know how to throw knives, Clove."

"Not the way I do. If you're going to the Capitol tomorrow, someone's gotta show you how to throw like a real Career."


End file.
